


all making, love making

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Sex Bets, Threesome - M/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: In retrospect, it was a stupid bet to take.





	all making, love making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/gifts).



> inspired by [actual](https://twitter.com/jonlovett/status/781326306109710336) [bets](https://twitter.com/jonlovett/status/755538350359056384), as well as the [quip](http://lucy-vanpelt.tumblr.com/post/169552290568) [ads](http://lucy-vanpelt.tumblr.com/post/170343703068).
> 
> thanks to winterfold for her excellent counsel, and also saying, "why haven't these ads spawned any kind of fic involving vibrators?" this one's for you. ♥
> 
> title from [three of cups](http://lucy-vanpelt.tumblr.com/post/132017684978) by marty mcconnell.

In retrospect, it was a stupid bet to take.

Since the election, any wagering action between them has generally been as removed from the political sphere as possible. "We're not in the prediction business anymore," Lovett likes to joke, but it's true: it just seems flippant, in the aftermath of the worst election of their time, to continue trading Bloomin' Onions over primary nominees and congressional outcomes.

So they gamble on dumb shit instead, like which dog will bark first on any given day, and how long it'll take Tommy to cave and finally get a puppy of his own, and whether Lovett will be able to make Deray laugh when he calls in to guest on the show. The answer to that third question was no, the last time, and Tommy, having won, hadn't let Lovett come for three days.

Just because the bets themselves are lower stakes now doesn't mean the terms are. That always keeps things interesting.

Which is how Jon's found himself here, freshly showered and waiting in front of Lovett's house too early on a Tuesday morning, so they can carpool to the office together and get this show on the road before any of their employees come in for the day. His punishment for losing hasn't even started yet, and Jon already feels like he might shake out of his own skin.

"It was a stupid bet to take," he says aloud, as Lovett slides into the passenger's seat and hooks the dogs into his lap. Jon had forgotten a cardinal rule: never bet against an incentivized Lovett, not when it came to food — and especially not when it came to how many hot dogs he could ingest in New York City. In Jon's defense, he hadn't considered that Tommy would help Lovett game the system by suggesting that Jon never specified a time frame, nor that Lovett had to eat all the buns. "It's like you want me to lose," Jon complained, watching Lovett cramming the fifth one down his throat. He hadn't missed the way Tommy grinned.

"Hindsight is 20/20," Lovett sing-songs merrily, the corner of his mouth rising into a smirk. "It'll be fun, Jon. Don't worry."

 

 

Tommy's already sitting at his desk when they stroll in and let the dogs loose. He looks up and just smiles at Jon for a minute, chin propped against his hand. Jon wipes his palms against his jeans, shifting on his feet, and says, "Well?"

Lovett tisks. "Be patient," he says, and spends way too long fixing himself a cup of coffee before he imperiously leads the way into the bathroom.

The click of the door closing behind them sounds too loud. Jon swallows around the tightness in his throat, waiting — still waiting. Lovett sits cross-legged on the closed toilet seat and peers into the plastic bag he'd brought with him before handing it over to Tommy.

"I wanna watch you do it," he says, casual. A pink flush crawls up Tommy's neck, but he looks pleased.

"Sure," Tommy says, and tilts his head toward Jon with a considering expression. "Pants down. Bend over the sink."

Jon doesn't know where Lovett found the vibrating plug, and he's not sure he really wants to know. Regardless of where it came from, it's going to be inside him in a minute, which seems more important at this juncture. He blows out a breath and does as he's told, hisses a little when his bare forearms come into contact with the cold linoleum tile. He's not really sure where to look, though he'd probably be able to see Tommy's face if he glanced into the mirror. It feels less dangerous to stare at his own hands.

Behind him, there's the sound of something being uncapped, and then the squirt of lube. Tommy's fingers are thicker than his own; Jon knows, from both observation and experience. He clenches reflexively when he feels one against his ass, can't help it. It's slick, kind of chilly. Tommy isn't pushing in yet, but the pad of his finger circles Jon's hole firmly, once, twice. Tommy sighs. "Relax, sweetheart."

"Trying," Jon mutters, and realizes he's been grinding his teeth. He takes a deep breath, lets it out again, and goes slack against the sink, the edge of the counter cutting against his stomach through the thin material of his henley.

"There," Tommy says, satisfied, and pushes in.

He's done this enough times by now to know what Jon likes, how fast — or slow — to go to make Jon feel it all the way down to his toes. That's not really the point right now, though; the fingering is just a means to an end, and Tommy opens him up with perfunctory, clinical ease, no lingering touches, no reach-around to make sure he's enjoying it. _That's kind of hot, too_ , Jon thinks, and feels his ears heat up.

When he glances to the side, Lovett's eyes are tracking every nudge of Tommy's fingers. "You look good," he says, glancing over briefly to meet Jon's eyes, mouth quirking up, and Jon's dick twitches. "Okay. Plug, now."

Jon makes a soft, bereft noise as Tommy eases out, but the blunt end of the plug takes the place of Tommy's fingers soon enough. He lets out a sharper sound when Tommy starts sliding it inside him, twisting a little as he goes. His other hand braces against the small of Jon's back, warm and broad, holding him still. Jon has to shut his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the way that he can feel the push of the plug aching in his throat.

"Fuck," he murmurs. When he opens his eyes again, his fingers are white against the counter.

Feels like it takes forever for Tommy to seat the plug all the way inside him, but it can't have been more than a minute at most. It's not quite deep enough to reach anything too distracting, but Jon's still panting, half-hard, by the time Tommy brushes his hand across Jon's back and pulls away.

Jon turns around, exhaling long and slow. They both watch him tug his underwear and jeans back up, tuck his dick against the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Jon forcibly resists the urge to duck his head, palm the back of his neck. "How do you feel?" Lovett says, toying with his phone.

"Full," Jon says, aiming for a dry tone. He's not sure he really succeeds.

"Cool," Lovett says, and taps something on his screen.

The vibrator turns on, and — Jon knows, intellectually, that the buzzing must seem much louder than it actually sounds because the plug is inside him, but it makes his heart rate spike, blood rushing through his ears. Jon locks his knees immediately, reaching back to steady himself against the counter. "Holy shit," he says.

"It's Bluetooth-enabled," Lovett chirps brightly. "Technology! Tommy downloaded the app too."

"I love the twenty-first century," Jon manages, as Lovett — thankfully — switches it off again. He clears his throat, adjusting his pants, and lets Tommy jostle past him to wash his hands. A couple more deep breaths, and Jon's calmed down enough to follow suit. He splashes some water in his face, too, blinks at himself in the mirror.

"Just let us know if you need to use the restroom," Tommy says over his shoulder, and Jon nods before he pushes out into the open office again.

The general terms have been clear since they started this: no touching yourself without express permission, and you can't come until the winner says so. The remote control butt plug is new, but Lovett said, smug, after eating eight hot dogs on Monday, that all he wanted was for Jon to wear it around under his clothes for one day.

Just one day. How hard could it be?

 

 

He can't stop fidgeting, is the thing. If Jon sits very still at his desk and stares off into the middle distance, his body can almost pretend that nothing's amiss, like there isn't something tucked snug inside him, holding him open. Every time he shifts, though, the plug seems to nudge itself just a tad deeper, rubbing up against places that are increasingly impossible to ignore. Jon keeps getting too into the emails he's sending out and moving by accident, without thinking, natural restlessness after sitting still for so long; by ten o'clock, he feels like he's developed a permanent cold sweat.

And that's to say nothing about the fact that Lovett and Tommy both have complete and total control over this thing. Lovett makes sure Jon can see him every time he decides to flick the vibrations all the way up, for a couple of white-hot seconds, excruciating and unpredictable. Tommy, on the other hand, must've installed a fucking desktop app or something, because Jon swears he doesn't touch his phone once. When he decides to play with the settings, they start out so low that Jon can barely feel them, and slowly tick up until Jon's rocking down against his chair, for relief he can't grasp, instead of trying to squirm away.

Together, Jon's pretty sure they want him to grind his molars to dust by lunch. He's supposed to be paging through as many articles about immigration as he can before lunch; instead, he's been staring at the first paragraph of this Washington Post piece for the past half hour.

"Jon," comes Sarah's voice, cutting through the frazzled edges of his spiraling thoughts. He jumps, back straightening, and has to bite back a groan as the plug shifts again.

"Hey, Sarah," he says, smiling weakly.

"Hi," she replies, an eyebrow arching. "I need you to sign some paperwork."

"Oh," he says, and grabs a pen off his desk. "Yeah, sure." His hand only shakes a little as he flips through the pages and scribbles his signature at the bottom.

"Thanks." She gives him a look as he hands the packet back to her. "You doing okay? You look kind of flushed. The flu's been going around."

Lovett's never been discreet about anything, and Tommy wouldn't be able to contain his blushing if his life depended on it, but Jon feels like the most obvious person in the room right now. "I'm fine," he says. Keeps his breathing stable, even as he can feel one of them toggling the vibrator again, just high enough to make him jiggle his foot against the floor to relieve some pent-up energy. "It's just a little — hot."

"I can get the thermostat for you," Tommy says, completely straight-faced, the very picture of an understanding friend, and actually goes to do it. Lovett's grinning like an idiot as he swivels around in his desk chair, hands tucked behind his head. _Dicks_ , Jon thinks, less savage than he should. He turns back to his iPad, fiddling restlessly with the sleeves of his shirt, and focuses on trying to retain words.

 

 

They let the interns take the dogs out at lunch. Jon picks at a KIND bar at his desk, mostly for something to occupy his mind with, but he's not actually that hungry. "Bathroom," he says tightly at half past twelve, and walks toward the back stiff and bowlegged.

"You're doing well," Tommy says, one of his hands brushing across Jon's shoulders as he comes up behind him, and Jon grits his teeth against the shiver that runs down his spine.

It's barely been half a day, and it already feels a little weird to be empty. Lovett's the one who bends Jon over the sink and lubes him up this time. His hands are smaller, fingers thinner, but Jon's been keyed up all morning, the entire world filtered through a haze of low-grade arousal. He's fully hard by the time Lovett's fit the plug back inside him, and Lovett delicately moves him around so that they're facing each other, reaches down to run his slick hand along Jon's erection, gives it a couple of quick pulls.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," he says, and leans up, grinning, to kiss the astounded look off Jon's face. His eyes are bright when he rocks back on his heels. "Four more hours left. You can do it, right?"

"Yeah," Jon says shakily, and tucks himself in again. He wasn't expecting, when they started this, for the ante to be upped quite this far, but maybe he should have foreseen it the first time Lovett had won some bet last April about whether he'd be able to make it to the office on time, and, in lieu of making them take him out to the Cheesecake Factory, had asked Tommy and Jon to kiss each other instead.

"I know you've done it before," he'd said, mindless of the impact of that particular bombshell. Jon certainly hadn't been the one who told him about all those late nights in Chicago, so it must've been Tommy; what else had they talked about? It was hard not to wonder. "But I haven't seen it, so did it really happen?"

"Pretty sure that's not how it works, Lovett," Tommy said, laughing, but he tipped forward obligingly. The press of his mouth had tasted familiar and sweet, like the soda he was drinking, and it reminded Jon of how much he'd missed just — being close to someone. Being close to them. The sentimental streak he's never been able to shake.

It's good to be here now, all in the same city again, falling into bed with one another even outside of the bounds of any wager. The second time, Tommy collected his winnings in the form of a blowjob apiece, and the third time Jon had opened Lovett up with shaking hands; after that, sliding his palm against the back of Lovett's neck at the office when he bent over to look at something on his laptop screen or dropping down on his knees to suck Tommy off while they were half-watching a Patriots game on Sunday afternoon just seemed natural, like breathing. He's learned and relearned a lot of things over the past eight months: the way Tommy's eyelashes flutter and catch the light when he comes, that Lovett likes watching as much as he likes participating, how they both curl around him in sleep, as if seeking the warmth. Jon doesn't know what to call it, really — mixing friendship and business and pleasure, lines blurring until he can't make clear sense of them anymore — but Lovett said, _you can do it, right?_ , almost a bet of its own, and that, at least, he understands. Jon is nothing if not eager to please.

"What are you going to give me if I make it all the way home?" he asks, voice low, hand flexing around the doorknob.

Tommy bites his lip, two spots of color high on his cheekbones, and Lovett's eyes narrow as he smiles wider. "Something nice," Lovett promises, knocking their elbows together, and follows Jon out of the bathroom.

 

 

In the afternoon, they have to do ad reads for the rest of the week, which Jon should've known would be harder than just sitting still at his desk and hoping for the best. He gets out of a conference call with Elisa and some venue people that he's definitely going to have to reread the meeting minutes for tomorrow, and Tanya herds him toward the recording booth immediately.

When Jon shuffles in, Lovett's saying, "Peloton," clipped staccato, face cradled in his hands. They've left the chair in between them for Jon, because of course they have.

"Is that supposed to be a Spanish accent or an Italian one?" Tommy asks, leaning forward. Jon squeezes past him, sits, sucks in a breath as the plug shifts. Unfolds his iPad, opens the email with the latest copy, drums his fingers against the table. If he does things one at a time, in their intended order, it's easier to concentrate.

"Headphones on, guys," Elijah says, and Jon clears his throat into the mic.

The first handful of ads pass without much incident, even though Lovett starts playing with his phone when he gets to the Betterment copy. He's just checking Twitter, Jon's pretty sure, but he can't help the way his breath catches a little. Corinne and Elijah don't notice anything at their AV set-up, so — it's fine. Maybe everyone will think Tommy's infected him with his enthusiasm for financial investing.

Halfway through the Tommy John ad for Crooked Conversations, one of them flicks the vibrator on — only at the lowest setting, but it's enough for Jon to stumble over the line about smooth deployment. "What was that?" Lovett asks, voice honey-smooth, and Jon shakes his head, face flushing.

He crosses his legs beneath the table, drains half of his glass of water, and clears his throat. "Patented horizontal quick-draw fly, Lovett," he says, all in a rush, and curls his hands around his iPad when Tommy huffs on his left.

Jon grits his teeth through Upside's copy, and they have to restart it twice — "Can you enunciate better?" Corinne asks, looking around her screens. "The microphone isn't picking you up well."

"Yeah, kiss the mic," Lovett says. "You're supposed to be a professional." He's smirking when Jon glares at him.

"No problem," Jon tells Corinne, and suppresses a shudder when the vibrator gets turned up another couple notches. He manages to finish reading through that one, and the next, without rushing too much or eating his words. He swallows long around the rest of his water as Lovett breezes through his ads. Jon's throat still feels too dry, the air moving in and out of his lungs burnt to a crisp.

"Quip and the Cash App left," Tommy murmurs. One of his feet slides over to jostle against Jon's ankle, and Jon closes his eyes for a moment, the buzz of the vibrator crescendoing with the roar in his ears. If he's meant to survive this, he doesn't fucking know how. Lovett's always been impossible to ignore, but this really takes the cake.

A fine sheen of sweat has gathered at Jon's brow, and he leans forward into the table, exhaling in a short burst as the edge of it pushes against his abdomen. The waistband of his underwear is holding his erection back pretty well — maybe Tommy John should talk about _that_ in their copy, fuck — and he doesn't think he's going to come in his pants like a teenager, but the plug is definitely pushing up against his prostate at this angle, and Jon just — he can't — 

"You can do it," Tommy continues under his breath, pulling him back down. If Elijah and Corinne find the reassurances weird, well — they're probably too busy paying attention to Leo and Pundit to notice.

"Crooked Conversations is brought to you by Quip," Jon says, and his voice comes out much steadier than he feels. "Quip's the new electric toothbrush that packs — just the right amount of vibrations in an ultra-slim design, with guiding pulses to — to simplify better brushing."

"Mm," Lovett says, wiggling in his seat, and Jon loses the thread for a second, a helpless giggle bubbling up from his chest. "Sounds perfect."

"Lovett coming in with the Favreau-patented mm's today," Tommy says.

"Encroaching on my territory," Jon manages, and stares down at his screen again. "Uh, you can maintain your dental hygiene at a fraction of the cost of bulkier brushes."

Lovett's eyebrows rise. "The slimmer the better, I always say."

"Do you?" Jon wonders, too breathy. "Good motto. Quip also comes with a — Jesus, a mount, that suctions right to your mirror, fitting seamlessly into your daily routine." They've been reading the same thing over and over for at least a month now; Jon should, by all rights, be inured. Then again, after nine years of Lovett's flagrantly suggestive comments in his ear, he should probably be inured to that, too. It hasn't happened yet.

"Very handy, that suction," Lovett says conversationally, and even Tommy chokes a little there. At least Jon's not alone.

"Quip also offers an optional subscription plan," he continues, faster now, just trying to get to the finish line. "They deliver new brush heads on a dentist-recommended three month schedule for just five dollars, including free shipping worldwide. And toothbrush itself starts at just twenty five bucks, so go to get Quip dot com slash Crooked Convos and get your first refill pack free today. That's G - E - T - Q - U - I - P, slash Crooked Convos."

"Great," Elijah says from the back, flashing them a thumbs up, and Jon laughs, giddy with relief. "One more to go."

Tommy takes over the last freeform Cash App ad, and Jon lets the sound of their voices sweep over him, Tommy's even tone and Lovett's high-pitched appeals to "switch, we're not using the other apps anymore!" Jon's ears feel far too hot, pressed in between thick headphones, and his calf feels tight from tapping his right foot against the carpet for so long.

It's not until the vibrator suddenly switches off again that Jon realizes they're done, and it's only the three of them in the room again. Tommy's bending over to look at him, brow wrinkled. "Hey. You in there?"

Jon sags against his chair for a moment, which isn't the best idea, because it nudges the plug deeper in new ways that make his spine tingle. He rocks back forward and rests his forehead against the cool wood of the table. "You're a goddamn sadist, Lovett," he mumbles, hands clenching against his knees.

"Aww, that's not true," Lovett says. When Jon glances up again, Lovett's tossing his phone from hand to hand, shit-eating grin spread wide across his face. "You know I just like seeing you desperate."

Jon flushes all over, can't even say anything in response. The truth is: he tries not to wear his neediness on his sleeve, part of him too embarrassed to acknowledge it, but it's impossible to hide completely, not with Lovett constantly dragging it out into the open, and Tommy pushing from behind, hands steady and sure.

His head fucking swims when he stands, legs like jelly. Tommy reaches out to cup his elbow, and Lovett wraps his fingers around Jon's wrist, thumb brushing against the pulse point there. "Just another hour and change," Tommy says, warm. Jon nods, biting down on his lower lip. The sting helps take the edge off. Lovett's smile goes softer around the edges; he squeezes Jon's wrist one more time before letting go.

 

 

Jon spends the rest of the day alternating between taking laps around the office and trying to do deep breathing exercises at his desk. The minute the clock ticks over to five, he's bending down to clip Leo's leash on, shoving his iPad into his backpack. "See you tomorrow," he says, waving at the people still in the office, and takes the stairs down three at a time.

Lovett follows after at a more sedate pace for once, jamming his sunglasses over his face as he and Pundit cross the street to Jon's car. "Kinda rude, leaving so quickly, don't you think?"

"Don't push it," Jon mutters, and Lovett laughs — not meanly — and opens the door to let the dogs into the back seat. A moment later, Tommy pushes out the entrance to their office building with Lucca tucked underneath his arm.

"Meet you at Jon's?" he says, like they're just gonna order some Postmates and watch something mindless on television over dinner. For a moment, Jon's afraid that's actually what's going to happen, that they're going to leave him hanging like this for the rest of the evening, but then he sees the slow smile spread across Lovett's face and thinks, _oh_ and _good_ and _thank God_.

"You drive," Jon says, tossing Lovett his keys. "Can't trust myself not to crash the car in this state."

"If you're sure," Lovett says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Traffic is patently awful, and he can feel it every time Lovett makes a hard stop or drives over a bump in the road, the plug jostling inside him. "I should've ridden with Tommy," he mutters, squirming in his seat, and Lovett makes an aggrieved noise as he turns down their street.

"This is the kind of ungrateful treatment I get for my services?" he complains. "What if I made you wait till after dinner, just for that?"

"Lovett," Jon says, letting out a short burst of air as they pull into the driveway.

Lovett glances at him, appraising. Jon gives him his best imploring expression, eyes wide, and Lovett shakes his head. "Put your face away," he says, but he's laughing. "That should be illegal."

"Can't help what I look like," Jon says, and then Tommy's beeping at them from the street.

Leo peels off into the kitchen as Jon unlocks the door, and the other dogs scramble after him. Jon drops his bag on the floor next to the coffee table and turns on his heel, arms crossed. Tommy's hooking his messenger bag over his head, and Lovett's toeing his shoes off.

"Can we be done now?" he asks, voice breaking a little.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Lovett says, and steps up, reaching forward to undo the button of Jon's jeans, ruck them down around his thighs. "You really did a excellent job," he says, softer, and gets on his toes to press their mouths together, swallows the noise Jon makes. "You were perfect. No one knew a thing."

Tommy slides around behind him, hands settling against Jon's hips. Jon hisses when Tommy tugs his underwear down too, fingers nudging at the plug. "We'd talked about it," Tommy murmurs against the slope of Jon's neck, "how good at this you would be, how fucking hot — "

"Fuck," Jon says, feeling drunk, head spinning, all his senses winnowing down to the hands on him, the breath against his skin. It's not going to take long at all, if the tight curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach is anything to go by. Jon would feel more embarrassed about it if he could process anything beyond the frenzied desire clawing up his throat, finally given the space to expand in the privacy of home, in this little cocoon between Tommy and Lovett, the two people who know him best.

"C'mon, bed," Lovett says, and Jon's not sure how he ends up in his room, except that they brought him here, and — they're going to take care of him, now. That's the important thing.

Tommy tugs Jon's shirt over his head and Lovett peels his pants and his briefs all the way off, socks one by one. Lovett pushes him onto the bed, giving him an appreciative once-over.

"You always look best naked," Lovett announces, sounding exceedingly smug, like the cat that caught the canary. "Turn around, Jon."

Jon flips over onto his hands and knees, heart beating in his throat. He lets out a dull whine when he feels one of them ease the plug out of him, clenches around nothing, can't help himself. His arms buckle a little, and then Lovett's knee-walking in front of him, tilting his chin up, a small smile playing at his lips.

"We said we'd give you something nice, didn't we?" he says, which is all the warning Jon gets before Tommy's sliding two slick fingers inside him.

Jon's eyes flutter shut, mouth dropping open, spine arching as he pushes back. It's not enough, but he's been patient so far; he can wait a little longer. "Fuck, Lovett," he hears Tommy say. "He's so loose." Jon's face flushes, dick bobbing in the air beneath him, too hard already. He wants — he needs — 

"Do it, then," Lovett says, commanding. Tommy pulls his hand back, digs his fingers into Jon's thighs, and slides into Jon in one fluid motion, hips pressed flush against his ass.

Jon chokes, wheezing, eyes prickling with relief, gratitude. It's always something else, being this full, but after an entire day of being held open it also feels like the end of a very long journey. Part of him has been anticipating this since he woke up too early this morning, frenetic energy buzzing beneath his skin. Tommy shifts, nudging a little deeper, and Jon's heart feels like it's going to jump out of his chest, breath trapped in the hollow of his throat.

"Breathe," Lovett says, and Jon shifts forward to press his face against the soft material of Lovett's shirt, muffling a cry in the fabric as Tommy pulls back and drives in again. One of Lovett's hands slides into his hair, stroking. "Hey. There, that's it." Lovett, Jon found out early on, likes talking during sex as much as he likes talking everywhere else. The wash of his voice is soothing, something to hold onto when it feels like Jon's about to shake apart. He looks up blindly, panting, and that tiny smile is still on Lovett's face. "Jesus, Favreau. Even when you're messed up you look good. It's unfair."

Jon licks his lips, groaning when Tommy rolls his hips again, and Lovett's eyebrows shoot up.

"You want my dick?" he asks thoughtfully, pushing his thumb against the corner of Jon's mouth. Tommy's hands slide up toward Jon's hips and dig in even deeper. Jon's going to have bruises tomorrow; he can't say he minds much.

"Please," Jon says, less a word than an exhalation.

"Since you asked so nicely," Lovett says, and pulls the waistband of his sweatpants and his underwear down. He's most of the way hard, dick flushed and pink and nestled in a snarl of hair, and Jon's mouth waters. He's too far gone to approach this with any sort of finesse, but Lovett sighs anyway when Jon mouths at his dick, licking around the head, wet and sloppy. He tastes salt on his tongue, blinks sweat out of his eyes, and arches his back as Tommy fucks into him faster, driving him up the mattress, Jon's hands twisting uselessly in the sheets. He hasn't been filled up from both ends before, but — he likes it, likes being split open all the ways that he can be, perfectly suspended between them, perfectly safe.

Tommy trails a hand up Jon's spine, holds him still, and says, "You were made for this," quiet and awestruck. Jon clamps down around him wildly, his awareness tunneling in, so all he can process is the pressure of Tommy's cock sliding deeper, the weight of Lovett in his mouth, both of them rocking into him in tandem. His own dick hangs heavy between his legs, so hard that he would surely be sagging down into the mattress if they weren't holding him up.

He can feel it when Tommy comes, the way he bends over and presses his chest to the damp skin of Jon's back, covers him like a blanket. His teeth sink into the nape of Jon's neck, and Jon groans around Lovett's dick, slides forward as much as he can, tearing up again when Lovett hits the back of his throat.

"You're so good, Jon, you look so — fuck, you take it so well, look at you, Tommy filling you up," Lovett babbles, and then all he can say is Jon's name, over and over, a chant, a prayer, cracked and feverish. Lovett's orgasm seems to surprise even him, but he manages to pull Jon off in time for most of his jizz to splash against Jon's cheek, his mouth and chin, instead of the back of his throat.

Jon slides his tongue across his lower lip, breathing raggedly. Lovett's eyes are gleaming when their gazes meet again.

"You wanna come?" he asks, voice a wreck, and Jon lets out a loud, yearning noise. "Yeah, you've earned it." Tommy reaches around, kissing his shoulder. Two pumps and that's all it takes, Jon's making a mess of himself, wrung out, his entire body shaking with it.

When he comes back into himself, he's lying on his back, boneless. Tommy's slipped out of him, and there's something cool pressed against his face. He opens his eyes, and Lovett's sitting against the headboard to his right, running a wet washcloth over his skin. Jon feels exhausted, like his body's been hollowed out, scrubbed raw. It's not bad, really. Just different.

"How are you feeling?" Tommy asks, eyes wide with — not concern, exactly, but something like it, fond and warm.

Jon opens his mouth to speak and yawns instead, which is pretty indicative. He's going to be so sore in the morning, and he could really use a shower, something real to eat, but for now, he's content to curl up beneath the sheets. Though — 

"Mostly," Jon says, raspy with amusement, "I'm just curious about what else you two have discussed without me."

Lovett flops over in bed, stretches languidly, and sends him a cheeky grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Tommy snorts, propping himself up on an elbow to narrow his eyes at both of them. "No ruining the surprises," he says, and Jon — isn't seventeen anymore, couldn't get it up again even if he tried, but a low thrill of pleasure kicks in his stomach anyway.

"I can wait," he says, settling back against the pillows.

"You've proved that several times over," Lovett says, dry.

Tommy shakes his head. "For what it's worth, this one over here bet you wouldn't be able to last the day."

Jon pretends to send Lovett a wounded glance. "Oh?"

"Stupid bet to take, I know," Lovett says, shrugging, the curve of his mouth half-hidden behind his hand. "But losing is its own reward, isn't it?"

Jon huffs, feeling every inch of the day's work in the slight ache in his jaw, the clean burn in his legs, the satisfied glow deep in his bones. "You could say that." He wriggles, shuts his eyes, and lets Tommy and Lovett bicker over the terms, their easy banter filling the room. He's where he wants to be.


End file.
